FROM THE GAME FIELDS. 



447 



the ducks you can and give them to the 

 the pot hunter who has made this most rea- 

 sonable rate of $2.50 a day to hunters on 

 this condition. 



I found the order of each day as follows : 

 The pot hunter and his 2 sons breakfasted 

 long before daylight and were in the blinds 

 by sunrise or before. By long years of 

 constant practice they had learned to call 

 artificially every duck that utters a sound. 

 At half a mile they were able to recognize 

 at sight the different varieties of ducks on 

 the wing; redheads, bluebills, canvasbacks, 

 ^ mallards, etc. When ducks came in sight, 

 the boy in the boat with me, an expert at 

 calling, would at once pipe up, and if he 

 could make the ducks hear, 10 chances to 

 one they would swerve, circle over us, and 

 come down among our decoys. Then the 

 young demon would show great anger, 

 though I was a paying sportsman with, as I 

 supposed, merely a boy in attendance, if I 

 attempted to shoot before the ducks were 

 on the water, well settled there and 

 bunched. 



One day the 2 brothers, with pump guns, 

 killed at one double shot 53 ducks. They 

 told me they and their father have killed 

 for many years an average of 10,000 ducks 

 each season ; and they evidently never 

 dreamed of anyone's objecting, or regard- 

 ing it in any other way than with admi- 

 ration. 



Every night, after all hands are in from 

 the day's hunt and the various bags of 

 ducks have been piled together in the wagon 

 bed, the drive is made to Rockport to cold 

 storage rooms, where a man stands in 

 readiness to check off the ducks as they are 

 unloaded ; sprigs so many, gadwalls so 

 many, mallards so many. These all bring 

 various prices, canvasbacks the highest, 

 redheads next, and so on down the scale. 



My eyes were opened to the horrors of 

 pot hunting and the beastly, degrading ef- 

 fect it seemed to have had on the men. 

 Not the life of a living creature that runs 

 or flies was regarded by them. They never 

 allowed a bird on the wing or a quadruped 

 on the run to go by unharmed. With an 

 oath and a coarse laugh the boy with me 

 would let drive at every pelican, heron, 

 loon, cormorant that came within reach 

 of his firearm, leaving the bird, after 

 wounding it, unnoticed on the water, to die 

 or flutter away. I had an experience I 

 trust I may never have again, and I would 

 rather put my gun away forever than take 

 a small part, even under protest, in such 

 carnage as' I witnessed while spending 2 

 days and a half with this family of pot 

 hunters. 



Not long ago I read an article under the 

 caption, "Why Is Duck. Hunting on the 

 Wane?" I have given you here a good 

 part of the answer. How can duck shoot- 



ing go on for any length of time at this 

 rate without waning? I have told you of 

 the routine of life, through the entire win- 

 ter months, of one family. How many 

 more families on the Texas coast are doing 

 the same thing? Making a living by de- 

 stroying ducks and geese daily at whole- 

 sale, and killing every other living thing 

 for practice or through sheer wantonness ? 

 I sincerely hope the State of Texas will 

 speedily take some steps to stop this shock- 

 ing slaughter of game ; and I wish that any 

 sportsman who has it in his power to do 

 anything in the matter might have his 

 blood heated to the boiling point, his ideas 

 of decency and moderation shocked and his 

 activities aroused as I had by a 2% days' 

 visit at a pot hunter's abode in Texas. 

 H. M. Dumbell, Great Barrington, Mass. 



ON THE STINKING WATER TRAIL. 



I am not certain but I invite a roast by 

 giving you an account of a trip I made to 

 Wyoming last fall. I started out to get an 

 appetite and some sport at the same time. 



Arriving at Red Lodge, Mont., I fell in 

 with Jim McLaughlin, one of the best 

 known guides in Wyoming, who had just 

 got in with a party from Illinois, and hav- 

 ing nothing in sight for the next few days 

 we soon came to terms for a trip to Jackson 

 Hole. 



On the evening of the fourth day we ar- 

 rived at our guide's house, wet through, 

 tired and hungry as bears. By the time we 

 had the horses cared for Mrs. McLaughlin 

 had a roaring fire in the sitting room, and 

 when we were warm and dry they called 

 us in to supper. This was not camp-out 

 grub ; fresh butter, eggs, milk, fried trout, 

 roast elk, white and brown bread, preserves, 

 fruit, and I do not recollect all of it, but it 

 did not take long to get rid of that hungry 

 feeling. 



This was as far as we could go with a 

 wagon, being up on the head of South 

 fork of Stinking Water and about 20 

 miles up from Ishawood, P. O., where they 

 get their mail. The next morning, while 

 Jim was getting our pack train ready, Mrs. 

 McLaughlin got out his Bristol steel rod 

 for me, and off I went to try my luck on 

 trout. On the road coming in Jim had told 

 me that he would like to let me have this 

 rod, but as I never had used one he did not 

 think it safe in green hands, and seemed to 

 think that a willow would about fit me. I 

 thought it too good a joke on him to miss, 

 and saying nothing about our previous con- 

 versation I shouldered the rod and went to 

 the creek. Following the stream about 2 

 miles I comenced to fish back. Long before 

 getting back to the house I had all I could 

 carry, about 100. Some we cleaned for im- 

 mediate use, and about 30 Mrs. McLaugh- 



